


Origins of Entropy

by solipsist



Category: Five Nights at Freddy's
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-01
Updated: 2018-04-01
Packaged: 2019-04-16 21:03:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 8,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14173344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/solipsist/pseuds/solipsist
Summary: In the end it stays the same.I have not been redeemed. There will be no deeper insight into the workings of my mind. There is a story written for me, and although I may scream and struggle all I like, and though nothing is sacred or will be preserved, there will be no easy exit for me. The world replaced my wife as soon as I had buried her memory, and I will continue to be blameless of every crime I commit.I will not die nor can I escape from the end. My life has, and will always be an a totem of insignificant destruction. I have been chosen by some otherworldly force that will continue to punish me whether I defy its will or not.My knees scrape the sidewalk when they drag me away. I cannot be changed.





	1. Chapter 1

I wake up in a bed with a pounding headache. An arm is hitting me, trying to shake me awake. Snarling, I jerk up, ready to scare off whatever hooker I dragged down to my apartment.  
But it’s my wife. She’s glaring directly into my eyes, (unbrushed hair, no makeup, naked as well. I don’t remember fucking her. Jesus does she look awful) through the tangled mess of bangs and curls, I can just barely make out her angry expression. Memories from the previous night are flooding back - the threat of divorce and therapy, a punch (my wife screamed when something shattered), and she clawed my face. 

I don’t pay attention to her words and reach up to touch my face, wincing at some very fresh marks on my cheek. Without looking in the mirror, I already know the red splotches have spread across my face, marring my perfect complexion. I don’t reply to her and turn over to study the damage she had done. 

“Beatrice, I need to borrow your makeup.”  
I tell her nonchalantly, inspecting my face in the mirror.

“Are you even listening to me? I said -”

I cut her off, uninterested, “I can’t go out like this. Jesus Christ, what do you paint your nails with? Sulfur?” 

A soft plastic bottle of concealer softly hits my head. She had the look - I know it, so I deny her my attention. Words are floating around me, I tune her out without any effort put into it. Obviously, my wife doesn’t intend on dropping whatever argument we had last night. 

“Did we use a condom?” I ask, cutting her off.

“What - what? N - that’s besides the point! William -” 

She’s evading my question. After applying the cream over the scratches, I turn to her, “Get an abortion.”  
My wife knows how I feel about more children. Michael was the only good thing to come out of her. Speaking of -  
“Shut up. I’m going to get coffee.”  
I don’t know who spoke. 

I don’t remember what we did - but my thick, dry tongue and an odd buzzing sensation in my limbs informs me that some prescription pills were involved. Frankly, I don’t really care what went on between us last night. As long as the concealer stays on, and she gets an abortion, it’s back to business.  
I catch a glance of her face - it seems that my apathy is driving her beyond frustration. If I keep ignoring her, then she’ll probably start blubbering, and God knows how long her hysterics would keep up. I already have to skip my shower in order to be on time today. Last night was too chaotic for me to turn my alarm on. Freddy’s is closed on Sundays, I always use that day to sleep in guilt free. 

I smile gently and take her by the hands.  
“Darling, I am so sorry -”  
She doesn’t believe me. Her accusations are evident on her face.  
“I’ve been so stressed recently,”  
That’s not a lie. Between this nonsense with my family, with the restaurant, with this bitch, and with Henry it’s wearing me down to the bone. I’m shocked I haven’t skinned any of them yet.  
“I’m saying things I don’t mean, doing things I don’t mean…”  
Skinning people.  
The image of my wife and I in a darkened room flash in my mind. Her head is resting in my hand, she’s kneeling on the floor. I have a knife in my hand. It’s small, beautiful, and glimmers in a dark blue light.  
“I don’t know if I want a divorce, think of what that would do to the kids!”  
She’s unafraid. My knife runs along the side of her face, the thin blade shaving off soft flesh. It comes off like paper, and like ink, warm blood flows down my hand. More - I could do more than disfigure her B grade face.  
“But I don’t need therapy.”  
She’s been pushing me to get help. Maybe that’s what the fight was about? I cup her soft cheek in my hands, running my thumb along the side of her skull and feeling her hair.  
“You and I. don’t want to air out our dirty laundry out for some… joke of a doctor to gossip about! Privacy is extremely important, you never know who could be listening. And besides…”  
I want to yank it out. I want to see her brown hair pull out chunks of flesh and expose the bone underneath.  
“It’s just a rough patch. We can work through this.”

My apology is weak and she knows it.  
Beatrice’s eyes are unamused. She moves away from me, giving me a chance to privately study her hard little body.  
“Nice try.”  
A lace shirt comes on, ruining the view.  
“I was talking about your sex addiction. Do you know how embarrassing it is to know that you’re out there giving some poor girl STDs? Ugh, I can’t -”

I guess someone - maybe me - must’ve told her.  
“It’s not my fault,” I try to soothe her, “After all, it’s not uncommon for m -”

“Therapy! You tell me you don’t want therapy, and then go off about your mental disorders. The least you could do is go to a doctor and get some medicine, instead of eating whatever you find in the bathroom.”

I’m silent.  
Give or take a few hours and she’ll calm down. I want to punch her face in. All I want is to break open her triumphant little smile and ruin the lump of brains inside of her.  
Fuck those brains.  
Fuck them.  
Without that mass of flesh, she wouldn’t be here to antagonize my every step. Without that mass of flesh, she would learn to shut her mouth and fuck off. It’s almost daily. An argument, accusations, name calling, god knows what. And no matter how many times we go over the situation - even in the times where I’m clearly right, Beatrice, the fucking bitch emerges victorious over me.  
She has me by the balls.  
Beatrice knows everything, and isn’t afraid to use it as leverage against me. If it’s money and kids she wants, she’ll get her fucking money and kids - or else I’ll end up rotting in the back of some lawyers office while they have the time of their lives scrambling to justify the time I fucked some seventeen year old whore or that I’m a heartless fucking psychopath that gets off to dead little kids and executing girls. 

When I snap out of my reverie, she's long gone. The smell of coffee wafts through the open door. There's nothing else for me to do than to face her.


	2. Morning

Her smiles have a quality of being sickly sweet, to the point of where I want to take a crowbar and smash all of her teeth out. I don’t doubt there’s something about me she wouldn’t hesitate to obliterate. Inside the bedroom we have our fights, but outside it’s a carefully scripted play we put on for the sake of our children.   
As if to irritate me, Beatrice’s face lights up when I stumble down to the kitchen and plants a sloppy kiss on my lips. I kiss back, of course, but push her away mumbling something about not smudging my makeup. None of the children are up yet, she and I both know that, but it won’t stop her from getting handsy. 

I sit down at the table and carefully drink my coffee, and planning out today’s plans. My entire day is already thrown off by whatever the hell we did last night. There’s no time for a shower, and I know I’ll have to resort to eating shitty pizza back down at Freddy’s if I hope to be on time. I’m nearly in tears over the prospect of today. There wouldn’t even be any time for me to catch a break in my office, and I wonder if it’s even worth coming into work today. I know the day is ruined before it even started. 

She’s talking again. I turn my attention to her, “...a babysitter for tonight, so you won’t have to worry about that.”

“What?” 

She sighs and rolls her eyes. I notice the fact that her eyes are… brown. The exact shade of shit.

“Weren’t you paying attention? God, you need to get yourself checked out. I said that I have a babysitter for tonight.”

“Why?”

She’s not surprised I don’t remember.   
“The date, William. You said you’d take me out tonight to make up for being a shitbag.”

Shit. I mentally add reservations to the list of things I must do today. Fuck. God, everyone’s so fucking determined to ruin my day. 

“We’ll go somewhere nice,” I say dismissively.   
I swipe my hair off my head furiously. There’s a tension headache building up. She said something. I tell her I’m leaving now. God, fucking damn it, I spew out every vile word I know inside my head while I brush through my hair. Shit eating motherfucking cunt - I need a haircut and a manicure. And a facial too.   
I hastily re-apply the makeup and decide to take it with me. She won’t miss it anyways - the bitch has hundreds of bottles over on her side. 

Why has last night thrown me off so badly? We’ve had fights before, but today feels as if it’s closing in on me. All I want to do is go back to my bed and cry. I don’t know what to be more upset over, and a list of misfortunes begin to pile up in my head. My face screws up in the mirror, and I quickly shake my head and force myself to maintain an apathetic expression.

The car ride is no better. The air is stifling, but if I let down the window, not only will I freeze, but I’ll muss my hair up as well. Thank God it’s only ten minutes.   
Before I come and face everyone in Freddy’s, I take exactly 50mg of Valium and 25mg of Lithium for good measure. I can feel my emotions running high inside of me, and the last thing I need to ruin today is a fit of mania. It’s not enough, and I light a cigarette and steel myself with a scene from a porno I saw last week. 

The plot itself wasn’t anything special, and the hardbody looked like any other slut you’d expect to use tit implants to make up for her lack of wit and intelligence. Her eyes bugged out in horror when her partner took out his cock, and I know the mascara running down her face was fake. Porn actors were the worse. The idiots always think that the best way to react is to open your eyes as large as fucking possible and pop your mouth open with some retarded giggle, before going, “Wow! Ooh I’ve never seen one that big, are you sure it fits?” As if she hadn’t already ruined her tight asshole with some twenty inch dildo a week before.   
I’d love to take one of them out with me. After some cheap drinks, I’d fuck her while running a circular saw through her hideous excuse of a tan. I have a recurring fantasy of running a saw through a girl and cutting her in half while fucking her senseless over a worktable. 

Another item; I don’t think we own one, so obviously I’ll have to run over to the hardware store during lunch. If they don’t have anything, then I’ll have to ask Henry to loan me his. 

It now occurs to me I’ve been sitting in my car with the door out, and one leg on the pavement for several minutes now. I must look absolutely freakish. Maybe I do need help - I barely know what’s going on anymore. Maybe there’s a pill for that. 

Henry greets me and joins me while I’m walking to my office.   
“How are you today? You don’t look so well, and you’re late.”  
You’re a fucking faggot, and your wife likes to choke on my dick when you work late.  
“Rocking and rolling,” I say cheerfully.   
“Hm.” He doesn’t believe me. We’ve been friends for ten years by now, so obviously he’d see through my lies.   
Henry tries again, “Listen William,” we stop at the door. He follows me inside, and I’m just about ready to jump on him and shove his glasses into his eyes. He didn’t have permission to come in.  
“You’ve been real tense lately. I’ve been seeing a therapist, I think you’d benefit from it. And maybe Beatrice too. I know how… you both can get, and it must be hard on the kids too.”   
I’m going to be the father of your next child and you can’t do anything about it.   
But before I can lash out at him snarling, I catch sight of his hopeful smile, and the spiny feelings in my chest melt away. I love him.

I can’t help but smile back, “Maybe,” I say noncommitedly.   
“I don’t need any help, but thank you for your thoughts. I’m doing fine.”

Last week I fucked a seventeen year old in the back of the restaurant without protection. And then we did coke together and I started crying. She left. 

“Like I told her,” I say smoothly, “it’s just a rough patch between us. And if it comes to divorce, then it’ll be for the best.”  
The word silences him. Good.   
Nobody likes saying it. Nobody likes to admit their failures. I brush my hair back and sit at my desk, before giving him a pointed glare.   
Why are you still here, I hissed inwardly. Pleasantries have been exchanged, and you’re only going to screw up more of my day. 

He must have figured out that I no longer care or am paying attention to a word he says. There’s some talk of how I’m getting a look, and he clears out after what feels like forever.   
My day in shambles. I don’t know what to do with myself. I sit there limply, before deciding to pour myself a drink. 

I want a secretary. 

“Oh, Mr Afton.” Adam. I stare up at him, not giving enough of a shit to reply to him. Without invitation he seats himself on a chair that was shoved off to the side.

“Get the fuck out of my office or I’ll make you eat a rat.”

“Hey I wanted to check in, uh, this - I haven’t been on the day shift for too long, you know? And, uh, Henry said you’d give me advice about the suits?”

I smile, baring my teeth at him. Perfect, white, straight.   
“I’ll make you pay for the rat too.”

“O- oh, well, that’s a given. I was thinking more of… out… out there. I’m, uh, no stranger to the incidents, heh.”

“I won’t cook it. You’ll kill it and eat it on my office floor. And if you’re lucky, I won’t make you clean up.”

“No sharp movements… yeah, I never seem to get the whole springlock mechanism. Is it really necessary? Couldn’t - couldn’t we just have two sets? I swear there’s suits out there that aren’t, that don’t have -”

“Have you ever killed and eaten a live animal before?”

He’s in love with me.


	3. Before the Date

It’s lunch. I’ve decided not to go to the hardware store.   
I’m staying in with Henry. We’re eating lunch together in the back room. I don’t remember how or why I’m here. I’ve never seen the sandwich in my hand before in my life, and I only now realize there’s something in my mouth. I drop the sandwich on the table and nervously inch away. 

There’s a hideous pink thing on the table, half assembled. I assume it’s a hallucination, and return to picking at the food, before giving up and biting at my nails.   
Reminder to make a manicure appointment sometime next week. Fuck, I need a secretary. 

Nothing interesting is going on. 

“I want some Oxycontin, do you want some?”

He stops eating and glares at me. The message is clear enough.  
Get wasted at work one more time and I won’t let you fuck me. 

I roll my eyes as dramatically as possible and continue to eat my sandwich. I don’t think I’ve eaten today. I blink.   
And suddenly I’m no longer in the back room. My watch says seven thirty, and I’m standing in the middle of the street. I don’t feel anything. Emptiness gnaws awfully inside of my chest. After a few moments of spinning around like an idiot, I get a sense of my bearings - halfway home, and there’s blood on my jacket. And angry.   
I drop my briefcase and feel my pockets. There’s a hard outline in my back pocket, and I retrieve an apparently used knife. 

I’ve only done meth very recently. I didn’t think I would get blackouts this quickly.   
Or maybe it’s from my drinking. Today has been a hazy blur. 

Emotion is a dear, valuable reward I always fight for in moments of high risk and adventure - the chance for euphoria, the chance to hold a gun in my hands and fantasize of an end for me and my life written out in the blood and brains of the bathroom wall is always too much to pass up. It’s a luxury, a beautiful luxury no man should be denied.   
There aren’t enough drugs and girls to make up for the few, terrifying moments before death. The beats of my heart are so much more noticeable during those times, my breath will quicken, my eyesight and hearing are sharper then - I am alive. And when your body refuses to die, it morphs into a glorious fight for the right to continue your existence.   
And even if it’s only for a moment, it’s then I feel the eternal hollowness in my chest driven away by the radiance of my near death experience. I’m human, if only for a few seconds. I know and crave empathy, I want to love and be loved. For a few days afterwards, it’s a delightful, fuzzy glow around me and others.

It’s better than any drug.  
It’s quite a different rush, however, to see the twitch of muscle and uncontrollable eye movement in someone else. My blood is not their own, and thus will have different qualities for me. I am powerful. And for precious moments or hours, I have a right to play god with their lives. To inflict pain and make them understand something.   
(i don’t know what anything is.)

Have you ever thought about how ridiculous Billy Loomis is? 

I’m still there, in the middle of the street. My Rolex watch now reads seven thirty four.   
There’s a special kind of hate I have for my wife. Something from last night shifts inside of me, and I throw the knife away from me, as far as I can. 

God, God, God, God!!!  
Oh God, I want a divorce. 

There’s only one problem between us. I don’t need monologues to spell it out for anyone, there’s only one problem and only one solution I can see. But I don’t want to do it, I really don’t. The only thing I’ve ever wanted was a chance to start over. I want to erase my life, fuck - God, I want to run somewhere else.   
Something stops me.   
She’s a dog, she knows everything, she holds it all above my head. We don’t love each other, she wants my money and I want sex. I don’t know what to do. She may be my friend, but God do I despise that bitch whore. It’s so terrifyingly easy to bail out tonight. I have a car - I bought a car recently (But apparently I left it at Freddy’s? I don’t know, I don’t know.)

My joints seize up. My heart beats faster. I’m woozy, oh my God, oh my God - it’s all I can say. The phrase calms me down, but only a little. I need a drink - God -  
My briefcase has nothing of use in it, fuck! God, God, God - oh my God - 

I can’t help but make a small noise and embarrassing tears well up in my eyes. 

A nearly childish voice in my head shouts at me. It’s not fair, damn right it’s not fucking fair. I don’t know what I want anymore. I only want to go away and be someone else, and start somewhere new. I didn’t have to kill the dog, but I did it anyways. I didn’t have to kill that homeless kike - but I did it anyways! Oh God, I didn’t even care enough to rape that little hardbody, but I went ahead and did it anyways - I do it, I do it, then I do it some more.   
And there’s no way for me to start over. If I kill her, it’ll prove some awful point Beatrice made to me some years ago, I don’t remember. If I don’t kill her, then I’ll be stuck, but if I try to divorce her, she’ll come clean and then they’ll take me away. 

It’s too much. Something’s gripping onto my chest. I sink to my knees, I’m ready to start sobbing in the middle of a street. I nearly curl up into a fetal position, but play it off as collecting my papers for anyone that may be watching.   
It’s no use - fuck, fuck, fuck, it’s no use, there’s no point in even trying, fuck -

I pick them all up. And then I throw them down the street. Nobody needs them, I’ll just have my secretary print me new copies.   
Then that was


	4. Date With Wife

Beatrice gushes into my ear, “Oh William, this is marvelous!”  
She’s telling the truth, for once. A genuine compliment from her is rare. As a half hearted reward, I give her a quick squeeze. For once, she looks okay. I don’t know when, or if I bought it, but she’s wearing a fur mink coat - something that blends in gracefully with our environment. We’re almost young again and free of the stress that children bring. I, of course, look better than she does. 

I chew on my drink ticket. The atmosphere of the restaurant is terrifyingly oppressive. God, I have no idea how I function anymore. I almost entertain the idea of getting a therapist, like everybody’s been asking me to. More Valium before I order my drink. We’re sitting across each other. She’s reading through the menu, and wants to order for me. I don’t care.   
It has to be mindless. Absolutely no thought can go into the action or it’ll all be ruined. I just want her gone, and this is what I’ve been driven to. I have no choice in the matter. If she stays, I’ll blast our brains out. 

We don’t talk for a while, and that’s fine. My hand wanders to the cigarettes to ward off the closing in of the walls, but she kicks me under the table.   
(i didn’t give you permission.)  
I satisfy my anxiety with more valium. There’s a few pills left. 

There’s nothing but a dull fuzzy static. Her glasses are on, she’s reading the menu. I’m letting her order for me. Meaningless noise roars in the background and it drums at the inside of my skull. I hunch over and rub my face and try to tune it all out. Nobody seems to notice or care about my impending panic attack.   
I grip at my hair, putting the carefully slicked back strands out of place.

“Excuse me.”  
There’s no response. I bolt down to the restroom and hurriedly brush it all back. Perhaps to ground myself, I paw at my face and try to focus on the now. Fuck. I grit my teeth.

Don’t… think… about… it…  
It’s too much and nobody’s here to give a shit. I can feel blood draining from my face, my stomach twisting inside out, and I almost run to a toilet and vomit inside the bowl. My body shakes and my fingers dig into the white porcelain. A second wave hits me, and after five minutes, I’m spitting what seems like acid down the drain. 

Don’t… think… about… it…  
I don’t want to do this. I can’t follow through.   
I’m coughing weakly at a puddle of yesterday’s food and this morning’s coffee. I don’t dare wipe my mouth on my suit sleeve, and instead resort to toilet paper. With the stall door locked, I sit on the filthy floor and lean on the side of the wall, trembling. I feel absolutely sick. Valium can’t fix it now.   
A cigarette is the only thing I can do to calm myself. My body has miraculously numbed itself to the effects of anxiety medication. After rinsing my mouth and taking the deepest breaths my lungs can give me, I walk back to our table. 

She hasn’t noticed I was gone.  
A second kick for smoking.   
(you aren’t getting pussy tonight.)

Don’t… think… about… it…

Dinner arrives. I’m given a plate of what seems like, “elk. Elk in raspberry sauce with an arugula salad soaked in truffle oil.”

“Pretty trashy.”

“Oh, hush, they’re trying their best for a hick town.”

I smile to myself. We never get along, but at least she hates this godforsaken place as much as I do.   
The rest of dinner passes without event.


	5. Androids

Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep was released in 1961 by Philip K Dick. Blade Runner, its movie adaptation was released in 1982. They focus on the adventures of a bounty hunter named Richard Deckard. His job is to find and retire rouge androids - or replicants. Artificial humans created to serve real humans. They have no emotions nor do they have empathy. Out of fear they may develop their own responses, each replicant was built with a failsafe expiration date - they die on their fourth year of life.   
And that’s where the similarities end. 

The book, Do Androids Dream, focuses on reality and unreality. Our hero works to make sense of his world, a world shattered by nuclear war and running on clinically diagnosed idiots and police stations. Animals are the single most important thing to Deckard. Artificial animals are rampant, and yet are seen as inferior in terms of social standing. The last remaining true animals are expensive. Deckard takes on the mission to kill six Nexus Six androids and uses the money to buy a black, Nubian goat.   
An android killed his goat a day later. 

There are countless dualities throughout the book. Mercer and Buster Friendly are another example. These men focus on popular culture.  
Wilbur Mercer is their messiah - a savior in the troubled times of war and hate. With the miracle of empathy boxes and mood meters, any human can feel any emotion he wishes and is free to experience the plight of others. In theory, this will lead to a unification of mankind and a reduction in crimes and hate. The book never mentions if this works or not, as the enemy is not ourselves, but a foreign machine built to love and serve us.   
Mercer is later proven as a fake. His religion a fraud. Once again, the book does not mention the widespread effects of this revelation, but it’s easy to realize how earth shattering this must be. 

If our savior is fake, and our savior gave us empathy and emotions, does this mean our own empathy and emotions are fake? The difference between us and machines is the ability to feel for ourselves and others. Take that all away, and there is now no veil or distinction between the two races. We have enslaved our own kind. We have become the enemy and the slave.

Buster Friendly is someone totally different. He is a beautiful talk show host. Every day, all day, he talks and he talks and he talks and he talks.   
And he does nothing else. 

Despite all this, Buster Friendly has rooted himself deeply into the hearts and minds of what remains of the world. And he is nothing more. Buster Friendly is our best friend, and he only lives to entertain us. At the end of the book, it’s not pious love for fellow man that wins out. It’s the inane babble of an android on the television screen. 

The book ends with Deckard finding a toad in the middle of the desert. He assumes it’s real, but his wife reveals it as a replicant. Despite evident disappointment, Deckard accepts this rather quickly and still cherishes the creature.   
A fitting metaphor for our lives.

The movie is far more action based. They have done away with Mercer and Buster. I have only seen it once or twice - but from what I gather, it too focuses on the differences between man and machine using emotions and empathy.   
Like man, the androids learn to love. Roy Batty is very much attached to the female android Pris. When she is executed, Roy goes on a rampage - as humans are bound to do - but eventually relents and in fact, saves Deckard’s life. Evidently not wanting to inflict that sort of pain on anybody else. 

Deckard is an android in this movie. And he falls in love with another android and protects her from death the best he can. 

It can be then argued that anybody is human if they love and care enough.   
Do I not qualify as human, then?


	6. The Murder

“Tears in the Rain,” my wife reflects dully, “I never understood the meaning behind that speech.”  
Of course you wouldn’t. Did you even pay attention to the movie?   
I conjure up the filthiest glare I muster and make it very clear I’m not in the mood for her mindless comments. 

“I am going to stop at Freddy’s. I need to check on the new guard.”  
It’s now or never. I will never have a chance as golden as this. My fingers grip the steering wheel, going against the intoned rule of driving relaxed. There was an accident last week - there are always accidents last week. Drunk driving, private fetishests photograph the wrecks and corpses to show off to dead brained teenagers in classes while fucking themselves silly to a thrill they’ll never dare attempt. 

“Okay.”  
Stress causes nightmares, I hear. Valium keeps my stress under control, but I still get nightmares. I think I’ll dream about this for a long, long time.   
I pet her soft, auburn hair and kiss the side of her face.  
“Come join me. I’ll show you what we’ve been making recently… a pink… a pink bunny… you like those, right?”

“Are you high?”

I don’t even bother gracing it with a reply. Beatrice looks quite beautiful in the night. She’s ignoring me, and staring out the window. It looks as if she’s daydreaming. I almost don’t want to snap her out of her reverie. Silently in the car we sit. It’s December. There’s snow falling in the parking lot. It’s not much, but enough to spread in a fluffy blanket of white. Maybe that’s what she’s watching.   
I can’t bring myself to ruin this moment. The words never fully form in my mind, they can’t and I’ve forbidden myself from thinking too deeply about my actions, but images flash in my mind. I may as well allow her to enjoy this for however long she wishes. I can find an odd sense of peace among the flakes. 

But it doesn’t last for long. The blue feeling rots out from inside of me, and returns to emptiness. I almost feel my body collapse on the seat. For several horrifying moments, I find myself empathizing with broken animatronics that litter Henry’s house. Mangled and contorted joints, I am unable to move with free will, and I can only stare brokenly out the window, out to the future crime scene. 

Finally, life returns to me. My hand sluggishly reaches over to Beatrice and rests atop her own, smaller hand. You are the start of my descent into entropy. With your death, I’ll start to melt away until there’s nothing but bone. Does my skeleton smile? There’s only one escape. I’m going to kill you. When I die, who’s going to get to work and hide everything? Someone has to. Someone has to make sure I no longer exist. They’ll replace my time period with droughts and gossip - or whatever it is a small town does in its spare time. My wife is an alien and I’ve fucked something from the stars. 

I can’t hold this off any longer.   
The car door is opened, and echoes on the left side of the car. Her heels crunch in the snow, and I don’t need to see Beatrice's face to know that it’s as blank as mine. 

Nobody’s in the building.   
It’ll start and end just as quickly. I don’t know what I’m saying anymore - there’s nothing I can do to rationalize the murder. 

It wasn’t silent nor easy. She saw me coming first, and bolts to the door.   
How long have you waited for this day? Did you always know, or was this a surprise? The crowbar comes down. Exposed muscle twitches underneath the torn skin and I think about a book I read so long ago. It was about a man and his squadron unit - the wild, wacky adventures of the army in a war that never happened. She’s screaming, I can’t hear it.   
Another blow.   
It’s stuck this time. I kick her in the back and yank away my crowbar. There’s a fissure forming along her skull now, and her blood is matting the soft, auburn hair. Hit it again, and brain matter delicately bulges out. Beatrice turns to face me. Perhaps to taunt me one last time. Whatever her mouth is moving to, it’s lost on me and is quickly drowned out with a third hit. Her face is deformed. The cheekbones have collapsed onto itself, and I’m fairly sure her right eye is beginning to bug out. 

Four, five.   
She can’t walk anymore. She’s blind, as well. I’ve managed to scrape away part of her brain, and her face is sunken in. Beatrice is kneeling on the floor, seconds from collapsing but too determined to allow me to see a weakness. I kick her over.  
For good measure, her head is stomped in, which is accompanied with noises not unlike books slamming down on a table.   
I throw my shoes into the garbage can and spend the rest of the night in my socks.


	7. Untitled

I sneezed.   
Snot and thick clots of blood stained my (sixty dollar) handkerchief.   
Shame. 

Putting on the brightest smile I could, I stride out to the stage and throw my hands up laughing and enjoying the cheers of the audience.   
Blood is pouring out of my nose, there’s an awful coppery taste in the back of my throat. 

“I killed my wife,” I shout to them. I spin, giddy with the confession.  
“I killed her! I smashed Beatrice’s head in!”

They roar with laughter and approval. There’s a stampede of feet, the ceiling seems to shake from the noise directed at me. 

“Aw hell! I’ve been doing coke since nine last night and I still look great!”  
The blood from my nose rushes down quickly, slowly drying with the consistency of wet paint. God, I feel great - I am great! I do a little dance, twirling around the stage taking in their love - the collective love of my audience and their undeniable loyalty to me. 

But there was nobody.   
I’m standing here, alone in a dark restaurant with a dead woman at my feet.

She’s stopped moving, and I’m suspended there, frozen in time as I stare at the victim. 

Oh Beatrice. Oh Beatrice, Oh Beatrice - it’s a mantra that plays in my mind over and over. Oh Beatrice! Its twisting onto itself into a tangled mess of letters and fear, oh Beatrice, Beatrice, Beatrice - oh -

I can’t bring myself to touch her, I cannot allow myself to indulge in a final pleasure with her. Half of an apology - a true, yet formless apology, not the shit I’ll babble at her to shut her up. It’s bending and warping itself into fragments of our countless arguments and eventually it gets stuck in my head playing a warped melody of should haves and could haves and would haves. 

Does she understand what I had to go through? Did anybody, could anybody possibly fathom how sick I feel? This was a mistake - my God, my God, everything was a mistake!   
My feet carry me to the other side of the room. I don’t have anywhere to go - the children, the marriage, staying with her, killing her, everything was a mistake! I -

I’m trapped, I’m trapped in this shitty little room with my dead wife, and I don’t have anywhere to go, and this is a mistake, and I am a mistake. Would they be satisfied now! I am the mistake!!   
My brain latches onto the new phrase, and it’s absorbed into a fuzzy, ringing static that yowls inside of me over and over. 

Oh God, oh Beatrice, oh - oh, oh, I am a mistake! Oh my God…   
I can’t leave. I’m standing at the door. The open door. Just beyond in another room is the fire ax and some garbage bags. But I can’t. Something tells me I deserve to get caught. Shit, should I just call them? That would save them a whole lot of trouble, I’m sure.   
My hand grips the frame. It’s progress. 

My foot is shaky. My legs and arms are weak. I don’t love her, I don’t love her, I really don’t. She was my friend, and I went and killed her. I did this, I did this, I went and, I went ahead and ---  
Sheer determination overtakes me. It does nothing to quell the shakes or my churning stomach, but it’s enough to drag me over to the last things I need.

My nose drips a little. I can feel a clot forming inside. I sneeze again, and blood flows anew, and I flick away dried blood.   
I’ve been doing coke since nine last night. I feel like shit, but I look good.


	8. Sober

Oh my God, the stupid bastard thinks I’m high.   
I’m leaning on the doorframe of his home, there’s blood all over my collar and sleeves, I’m fucking crying, and all he thinks to do is ask if I’m high.   
I want to wrangle him right there and then, I want to feel the twitch of muscle and bulging eyes and a strangled plea for mercy. But I don’t, and I weakly suffice with a gentle punch.   
No, no it’s not enough, the stupid bastard will think I’m weak. I resolve to hit him later, but then he’ll think I’ve been working out just so I can hit him. My fists ball up, my fingers feel as if they’ll fall apart, and I punch him squarely in the chest. It’s enough, he takes a few steps back and takes the hint. 

Stupid bastard. 

I’m crying, I’m crying on his fucking doorstep. My knees give away, and I think I’m leaning on his legs, oh my God I’m such an embarrassment. Someone’s saying words, “No, Paige, it’s alright, it’s just William. I’ll be up in a few minutes.”  
I’m fucking a woman named Paige. I think she’s Henry’s wife, I don’t remember, fuck I’m crying.   
He’s asking me what’s wrong while leading me by the hand to his car, his car where I loaned him money to buy it and blew him a couple of months later. 

He’s asking me what’s wrong, and all I can manage is, “Stupid bastard,” over and over. My mouth doesn’t know what else to say, I don’t know what else to say.   
“Stupid bastard,” I’m leaning down, it’s March the fifth, it’s Wednesday and Paige is out of town, I’m undoing his belt -  
“This wasn’t some fucking hooker.”

He’s gently petting my hair, I’m resting my head on this lap.   
“You stupid bastard, don’t you understand - it wasn’t a fucking hooker!”

I don’t care what he says anymore.   
“Gas leaks,” I hoarsely say, “oh my god, We’ve got to call in gas leaks, they’ll find her, and she drove me to it! She fucking drove me to it, oh my god, nobody will understand. She made me do it, she had me by the fucking balls. She told me to kill her! Oh my God,” but there’s no response. He just looks down at me with these glasses and they’re shining - it’s nighttime, there’s a moon out.   
Cautiously, I test myself, “Paige is pregnant.”

No response. That’s it, he’s not listening. Henry isn’t real, this isn’t happening. It’s someone else, someone else is in the car with me.   
“Get me some fucking Valium, I need to calm down.”  
They don’t understand what I’m saying. 

“Valium, you stupid fucking bastard - valium!”   
I scream in their face and jerk away. There’s got to be something in this car, I’m furiously searching through the dashboard of my car. I always keep it somewhere around here, “Where is it? Don’t you understand? I need it, I need to - I’ll take some fucking opioids, just help me out here, man!”

I start crying again. Why doesn’t anyone understand what I need? I helplessly slam my head down, and the hand starts petting me again.   
“This… isn’t… what… I… wanted…”  
My words are carefully chosen and enunced.   
“I’m sorry,” I pathetically gasp out, “I’m really stressed, I don’t know what to do.”  
I’m calming down.  
“Fuck, just, here’s $50, get out of my car. Sorry I’m not in the mood to fuck you.”  
It’s a hooker, it’s a hooker. 

She doesn’t leave, and stares at me with a dumbfounded expression.  
“Get out, get out! Please,” I beg her, “I need to be alone!”

“Not in my car. William, come on, I’ll take you home.”

“This, no, this is my car. And I can drive myself home, oh my God,” I start laughing to myself, at my feet. I’m hunched over, fending off another panic attack. I’m going to throw up.   
She starts up the car and starts to pull out of the driveway. 

“You can drive?”

“Please be quiet.”


	9. Burial

The outside world doesn’t exist when we’re in the little motel room. Shades are drawn, she has her shirt off, and she’s fumbling with my belt buckle. I can’t bring myself to care. The room is dark, it’s so awfully dark. The television playing isn’t enough, the bright blue light thrown around the walls only serve to create more dark shadows around me. 

They have a strict no smoking policy and I’m out of medicine. Aspirin is weak, it’s not enough, but all I have to dull the headache. 

“No, no, stop, I’m not in the mood.”

I push her away and wave my hands. Her expression is invisible in the darkness, but she’s more than likely hopelessly confused as to why I stopped her from her job.  
“No,” I choke, “No, I can’t -”

Thankfully she picks up on something being wrong. Poor baby. She calls me a poor baby and holds me closely in her arms. She pets my hair and kisses my forehead, and it takes everything inside of me to not begin writhing and screaming out. 

“I’m sorry, I thought this would make me feel better.” I’m almost sobbing. Poor baby, poor baby. Tell me what’s wrong, you poor baby.   
“I killed her, I killed my wife, I…” Her pets don’t stop. She doesn’t freeze or scream. My confession means nothing. Poor baby, poor baby. She must have heard it thousands of times over. It’s not as if she can do anything. Her profession is just as illegal as my crimes. 

“Look, let’s just watch a movie.”

“Oh, but…”

“I’ll pay you,” I beg her, “Please, I don’t want to be alone right now. Please…”  
She caves in. My fingers press into her flesh, I’m sure I’ve left marks. Years ago I took a woman to a hotel room. I used barbed wire as a leash for her and slaughtered her vagaina in toothpaste and alchol. I left her crying with a broken wine bottle stuffed up in her. I’ve never seen her since, and sometimes I wonder if she’s died of her wounds. 

Sometime during our heartwarming moment of compassion and empathy, I fall asleep. When I wake up, she’s stolen two hundred dollars from my wallet. 

By the time I finish speaking, fifty million cells will have died and been replaced. I am being constantly reborn. Deep breaths, deep breaths. Lung cancer isn’t real. I smile weakly at Clay, “Co - do you have any coffee?”   
The air is thick and heavy, it’s nearly impossible to breathe in there. I hope I’m not sweating through my suit. His secretary hands me a paper cup. Why don’t I have a secretary? He’s staring at me, what a ridiculous mustache. I only came here to set the record straight, but he and I both know I’m lying. I’m only here to shut him up. 

“Yes? What can I do for you?”

“I - I don’t know how to go about doing this, but I’d like to file a missing person report?” My lip feels wooden, my own tongue swells up and chokes me. My head is hot - my forehead burns - but it’s done. This is my wife’s burial. She is now a number, an odd detail in a greasy notebook. If she wasn’t dead before, she is now. It’s over now, it’s all over now. But I  
am  
not  
relieved. The conclusion is insignificant. There has to be something more dramatic than reporting her death to a man who doesn’t care. Is this my turning point? How many lives have been changed because of this? Has anything really changed? I must be deluding myself. A drink, “Do you have coffee,” I repeat.

“Oh no.”  
He’s a good actor, but who really gives a shit? He barely knew her. Clay shouldn’t care. Or maybe he’s upset because I’m out of coffee.   
“Who went… missing?”

“My wife. We, uh, she - she and I have had problems for the last few years. Last… last night I took her out for dinner. And you know her right? She’s bipolar - an absolute mess.” The words I’m saying are spinning out of control. I don’t know what I’ll say next.   
“She gets to the car before me, and takes off like a madman. I know! She’s off her medicine, lithium, I think. I haven’t seen her since. And I’m - I’m worried about her. What if she got into an accident?”  
My hands twitch and I have to put down the cup. I’m about to explode. I killed her, I killed her, I killed her!! I killed my wife and then cried like a little bitch. 

An accident. Fuck.   
Fuck, I’ll have to stage that. A metal pipe through her head? Fire? I’ve been wanting a new car recently. I smile nervously at Clay, who is significantly taller than me. He takes down the details, pretends to smile at me sympathetically and says something about giving him a few hours to send a man to my house. I told Henry I want a cat. Are there any breeders in town? 

“Thank you. Thank you very much. I’ll be here the best I can to…”  
My voice trails off. I have work to do tonight. Clay reaches over and touched my arm sympathetically and I wince. Clay if you don’t let fucking go of me right now you’ll get a stump and lose your fucking job. I daydream about biting the lip with a mustache off.


	10. Saturday

I’m standing at the top of a steep hill. My legs shake, no - my entire body does. I’m overcome by chills that seem to torch my insides. My skin is deathly cold to the touch. I open and close my mouth while visions of nothingness swirl and dance around the corner of my eyes. Nothing can come into focus. I feel so horribly infected. 

The hill is inviting me. 

I start running, my shoes scrape along the pavement while the muscles inside of me twitch and burn. They burn as if tired and overused; not like a match. My lungs struggle to cope, and the only thing I can do to survive is to drop my mouth open and screech as loudly as my chest would permit me to. 

I close my eyes to the pounding wind. My hair is a mess and my tie is flapping freely. My face is flushed red and my voice can only make out hoarse wheezes until my legs give out from underneath me. My face scrapes the cement and when I squint through razor thin slits, I can see a trail of blood from behind me. Noises I can barely decipher surround me, hands grab me, lights shine into my face. 

Where is my wife?

In the end it stays the same.  
I have not been redeemed. There will be no deeper insight into the workings of my mind. There is a story written for me, and although I may scream and struggle all I like, and though nothing is sacred or will be preserved, there will be no easy exit for me. The world replaced my wife as soon as I had buried her memory, and I will continue to be blameless of every crime I commit. 

I will not die nor can I escape from the end. My life has, and will always be an a totem of insignificant destruction. I have been chosen by some otherworldly force that will continue to punish me whether I defy its will or not. 

My knees scrape the sidewalk when they drag me away. I cannot be changed.


End file.
